Time Together
by Ali Flagg
Summary: Sequal to "An Unexpected Guest". Clarice and Hannibal have their first Christmas together. They've escaped the States and have settled in Canada. But what happens when an old college friend recognizes Clarice? Read and Review please!
1. Chapter 1

It was Christmas Eve and Clarice was curled up on the couch with a glass of eggnog and rum. A fleece blanket was spread over her lap and a paperback was propped against her knees. Her hair had been tied up in a messy bun, several strands falling out of the quickly tied elastic. A few candles had been lit, giving the room a soft glow. She liked reading by candle light better than electric lights because of the softer illumination. It appealed to her underdeveloped romantic nature.

The front door of the apartment clicked open. Clarice barely glanced up. "Hey," she called, absent minded, flipping a page of her book.

"Hey," Hannibal echoed. She glanced up from her book, frowning.

"You okay?" She asked, "Usually you make fun of me for saying 'hey'. 'Hey is for horses, not humans.'"

Hannibal dropped a brown paper bag on the counter which separated the small kitchen from the living room. Chinese characters tracked ant-like down the bag parallel from the crease in the side. Clarice straightened up, craning her neck for a better look. "You picked up Chinese food?"

He gave an affirmative grunt, easing onto the couch beside her. Clarice put her book face down, shifting the fleece blanket to cover his legs as well. She laid her cheek against his. "What's wrong?"

"I went to pick up your Christmas gift, and it had been accidentally broken by one of the clerks. It will be a little late. I'm quite disappointed." Then he reached across and snapped her book shut. He hated it when she left them face down, it wrecked the spins.

She ran her fingers through his closely cropped hair. "That's fine," she smiled wryly, "Will you tell me what it is early?"

A thin smile curved his lips. "Perhaps," he touched her neck tenderly.

"While you debate that, Doctor, I'm gonna dish up for supper," she slipped out from underneath the warm blanket and padded to the kitchen in moccasins. Hannibal got up to follow her. In the kitchen, he poured himself a glass of red wine before serving himself a plate of chow mein, deep fried rice and ginger beef. Normally he refused to eat takeout, he despised it, but he was far too tired to cook anything. Then he thought how classy he was, having wine with Chinese takeout. Clarice teased him affectionately, telling him to eat his vegetables.

"Those aren't vegetables," Hannibal growled in an affronted tone, motioning loosely at the container which was filled with soggy greens swimming in a sauce he couldn't name. She chuckled a low laugh, scooping some of them onto her plate. Over all, Hannibal didn't eat a whole lot, but Clarice chowed down. She had forgotten to eat all day, being wrapped up in her book. They sat at the small kitchen counter, which Hannibal detested as much as he detested takeout. Their apartment wasn't nearly as grand as he would like, but at the moment it was all they could afford.

Clarice had quit the FBI before they moved away and was looking for a job. She wasn't sure what she could apply for. Of course, having the FBI on your resume was quite impressive, but she didn't have much else job experience. Clarice was mulling over the idea of teaching a criminal psychology class. She did have the perfect example after all. As for Hannibal finding employment, he was reluctant to put himself out into the public eye too much, after the last skirmish at the Chesapeake cabin. Having a prosthetic hand didn't help, it stuck in people's memories. He tried to wear gloves as often as possible. Fortunately they both had saved up quite an impressive nest egg, which they dipped into to cover the necessities.

They had moved far away, to Canada, to escape suspicion. Canada didn't seem nearly as concerned with the escaped Hannibal Lecter. Despite that, Clarice tried to stay on top of the effort being put into finding him by the American government. Over the past year it seemed to have dwindled to almost nothing. He had dropped from the FBI's radar. No murders or disappearances that matched his style had been reported; Clarice had tried to discourage him. She loved him deeply and was trying to accept his lifestyle, however she still felt appalled by his potential for violence.

Lying in their bed in the early morning hours with the fingers of his remaining hand curled around her own, his chest rising and falling in easy sleep, it was hard to imagine him killing anyone or eating them. Nestled against his warm form, arms entwined around each other, she often wondered late into the night over their strange relationship. How had she fallen for him? It was statistically impossible. Although she supposed that they had learned each other more intimately than any dating couple while chasing after him over the years.

Yes, he had lured her into a dangerous courtship with his charisma, sophisticated voice and intense eyes. It was his eyes that had arrested her in their first meeting. A blue she felt she would drown in.

Suddenly reaching out, she took Hannibal's hand. He raised his eyebrows. "Yes?"

"I love you," she said simply.

"I love you too," he replied, smiling. It was a very private smile, the one he only allowed her to see. It was an unguarded smile with no manipulative intentions behind it. His eyes, usually burning with a driven fire looked happy, the simple happiness that being with your favourite person created.

After doing the dishes (he washed, occasionally flicking soap suds at her while she dried) they sat on the couch together. Clarice was wrapped in his arms. Her fingers played along his prosthetic hand. He kissed the top of her head. "Aren't you going to pester me into finding out what your Christmas gift is?"

"No, I think I'll wait. It'll be a surprise."

They stayed up for a while longer talking about inconsequential things then turned in to bed around eleven o'clock. In their small bedroom as Clarice undressed for bed, Hannibal was removing his prosthetic. It was possible to sleep in, but he claimed it uncomfortable. It still gave her shivers looking at the stump, remembering the night he had cut it off. He caught her eyeing it. "Still worrying over that?" he asked.

"Yes... I'm so sorry that I forced you to that."

He pulled her into a strong hug, his remaining hand stroking her hair. "Don't think about it Clarice. What's done is done, I felt it necessary."

"Still, H. I feel terrible about it."

He kissed her tenderly. It was the only time he ever became speechless, when they discussed his hand. There never seemed to be anything he could say to comfort her, even though in his mind the removal of his limb was completely justified. Clarice once mentioned she wished she had given him the key. Hannibal's face had hardened, ice glazed his eyes. He then told her that giving him the key would have compromised her beliefs and he would have been forced to slaughter her. It was difficult for Clarice to come to terms with his confession although she understood his reasoning once it was explained to her.

They went to bed and both slept. Clarice dreamt of lambs and moths dancing in contrast with a purple sky. There was no screaming. The lambs were happy.

The next morning Clarice awoke late, around twelve. Hannibal was absent from bed, his prosthetic gone from the bedside table. The delicious scent of bacon and brewing coffee was coiling through the air. Clarice reached for her moccasins and walked to the kitchen.

Hannibal had fried up a plate of breakfast sausage and was in the middle of cooking bacon and eggs on different pans. Clarice could see the toast had been put down. "Can I help?" she asked.

"No," was his reply, "Coffee is fresh, however."

Clarice poured herself a cup of black coffee. It smelled quite enticing. It was a good blend. Hannibal must have stopped at the market to buy fair trade. She laughed out loud.

"What are you laughing about?" he asked curiously.

She sipped her coffee. It was definitely a fair trade blend. "I was just thinking of you buying fair trade coffee. Doesn't it seem funny that a mass-murdering criminal hiding out in Canada is buying fair trade?"

"Doesn't it seem funny," he countered amiably, "that an ex-FBI agent is living with said mass-murdering criminal in Canada and drinking his fair trade coffee?" He put a steaming plate of eggs, sausage and bacon in front of her. "Wait thirty seconds and you can have toast too," he added.

"Looks delicious."

"Why thank you. Merry Christmas, by the way."

"Merry Christmas, you."

Hannibal set two pieces of toast on her plate and a bottle of ketchup (which he insisted on calling 'catsup') in front of her. He always teased her about using ketchup, saying it was so low class of her. Regardless of his good-natured jabs, she continued to eat her breakfasts with ketchup.

Hannibal sat across from her. "Shall I go get my present from your little hidey-hole or would you prefer to get it yourself and pretend you can hide things from me?" He winked.

"I'll get it and pretend I'm cleverer than you are," Clarice muttered. She came back moments later with a small black box with turquoise stitching, a jaunty green bow stuck by adhesive on top. He smiled sardonically at the modest attempt at wrapping. Clarice shrugged. She didn't have the patience for such frivolities. He popped the top off.

"Oh," he breathed, "Clarice. Thank you." He got up and kissed her, crushing her close to his body.

In the box sat a pair of cufflinks. They were rectangular D-shape cufflinks with two black vertical lines placed in a rhodium plated etched setting. Hannibal had been contemplating them for some time, wanting to purchase but afraid to on their budget. Clarice immediately went out and bought them with her personal spending money.

Hannibal reached into his pocket and pulling out a folded piece of paper. He handed it to her. "This is what you were supposed to receive today, if it weren't for the damned idiot who snapped the chain at the store."

It was a printed picture of a beautiful silver necklace with a fine chain. The pendant was shaped as three twisted silver loops, two small and the third a bit larger and in the middle. A single red gem was set into the large loop. The gem itself was very small but drew the eye in a striking focal point.

"Hannibal," she gasped, "it's magnificent. Oh my God."

"I'm glad you like it."

She hugged him tightly. "My God, this must have cost a fortune."

"It's impolite to discuss the price of a gift," he murmured, smiling against her neck.

"When will it be fixed?" Clarice asked, sitting by her forgotten breakfast.

"It should be done in a few days. I'll stop by on Tuesday to check. Would you like to accompany me?"

Clarice nodded furiously. "Yes, I can't wait to see it in person."

"I'm delighted you like it so much. Now eat your breakfast. I know very well that you only ate Chinese food yesterday. That will not be tolerated today."


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's note: this edit is dedicated to Anne Oying who gave my ego a wonderful boost. :D_

The next morning, Hannibal had insisted they go skating. He had to grumble, prod and tease until Clarice relented and said 'yes'. At the rink, they rented two pairs of ice skates for five dollars. Clarice marvelled at the cheap price. Meanwhile, Hannibal laced his skates up in a flash and was out on the ice before Clarice had even found a pair that fit comfortably.

Satisfied with the skates she had chosen, Clarice sat down on a bench by the ice, tugging her boots off. Hannibal glided past her with ease. She pretended to ignore him as he spun and glided past again, this time backwards. She laced her skates, pulling them tight like her father had taught her years ago. "I don't know how well this is going to work, H," Clarice muttered, "I learned on figure skates. These are hockey skates. I don't know if I can skate without a pick."

"You will be fine," he called. He had skated a decent distance away. He turned and skated back towards her. He held his hands out. "Let me help," he said. She took his hands, allowing him to pull her into a standing position. She felt her legs wobble and her knees lock.

"Relax your knees," he murmured in her ear, "but keep your ankles a touch steadier. That will help." He pushed the small of her back, sending Clarice sailing across the ice. She began to coast to the right, and her momentum gave out. Hannibal was at her elbow immediately.

"Push off with your feet," he instructed, "Come now, Clarice. It is akin to riding a bicycle. You never forget."

"I was never a good skater," she admitted, "and now you're forcing me to skate with no pick. Don't expect anything amazing today."

Hannibal waved her comments aside. "Skate."

He preceded her in a steady backwards skate as she took a few hesitant steps forward. Suddenly her arms pin wheeled in a search for balance and the blades of her skates stabbed at the ice in the violent stepping motion all novices make before a fall. She landed on her hands and knees. "Damn it!"

"Clarice," Hannibal chuckled, helping her up, "how do you expect to blend into the Canadian community if you can't skate? You aren't a proper Canadian until you can skate."

She enviously watched a pair of girls on figure skates sashay past. "They have picks," she protested, "Look at them. If I had picks I could skate like that."

"Excuses and whinging don't become you Clarice," he said, "Now take my arm, we'll skate together."

They spent a few solid hours skating. By the end, Clarice could skate alone without the wobbly feeling in her ankles and with relaxed knees. She pushed herself about, cheeks red from the cold and excitement. Hannibal flew past her, doubling back, circling and generally out-skating her.

"How are you so good?" Clarice demanded, "You shouldn't be that nimble on ice."

"How else do you expect? Psychopaths must stay in shape, didn't you know? It's common knowledge."

She smiled as his words which were lightly flecked with sarcasm. "H?" Clarice then asked, guiding herself into a snow bank where she flopped down. She hadn't got the hang of stopping yet.

Hannibal angled himself for a halt. Ice shavings shot up from the blades of his skates scraping the ice. "Yes?"

"Can we stop now? My feet are unbelievably sore."

They returned their skates to the little kiosk. The clerk told them to have a great day. Hannibal promised her they would.

It was a beautiful day so the two of them walked to a little cafe down the street arm in arm, conversing contentedly together. They took a table in the back of the cafe to enjoy their coffees.

"I didn't do too badly," Clarice commented, warming her hands on her to-go cup.

"You did do better than the five year old in the pink toque," Hannibal said mildly, sipping his drink.

Clarice frowned. "Of course I did. My flailing was much more elegant. She had no form or style!"

"Clarice?" A woman's uncertain voice interrupted and made both of them turn. Hannibal's face remained calm, but Clarice noticed his eyes narrow nervously. In return he saw the flush of her cheeks vanish and her eyebrows shoot up. A woman approached her table. She was an average height with blonde hair in a stylish pixie cut. A sensible blue scarf was wrapped around her neck. "Hi! Clarice! It's Jo, from college. Remember?"

"Jo!" Clarice exclaimed, faking a warm tone. "Wow, it's been forever. How are you?"

"I'm doing fine," Jo cast Hannibal a curious glance, "just got married two months ago, actually. Remember Lou Bennet?"

"Yes, of course I do. Congratulations!"

"Thanks. Oh Clarice, I didn't know you were in the country! Last I heard you were still in the States. How's the FBI? Did that work out?"

Clarice shrugged, casting a panicked look at Hannibal. "Sort of. It just wasn't for me so I quit."

Jo nodded in understanding. "And who's this?" she asked smilingly.

"Hans," Hannibal slipped a hint of an accent into his words and offered his hand to shake, "Hans Lenter."

"Nice to meet you," Jo replied, interest obviously sparked. Clarice could almost see the curiosity eating her old friend. Clarice gave Hannibal a glance. He looked unremarkable. His prosthetic was covered with a black, fake leather glove. The only detail that might stick out was his age, him being older than herself.

Hannibal stood, picking up his coffee and breaking Clarice's train of thought. "I'm sorry we just met, but Clarice and I were just about to go catch a movie."

Jo gave them both another large, winning smile. "Well you two have fun then. Clarice, look me up in the phone book! It'd be nice to talk about old times, hmm?"

"Of course!"

After goodbyes Hannibal took Clarice's arm and steered her smoothly out of the cafe. Clarice's colour was returning to her cheeks. "I'm sorry," she muttered, "I totally lost it there. She startled me."

Hannibal brushed her hair back affectionately. "That is forgivable, Clarice. We thought we didn't know anyone in Canada." Then he grew serious. "You will not contact her."

Clarice gave him a sharp glance. "Don't give me orders, Doctor."

"Forgive me. I feel rather shaken as well."

They walked back to the apartment in silence, both thinking of the threat Jo might pose. Would she connect "Hans Lenter" to the infamous Hannibal Lecter? Clarice thought not. Hannibal hoped not; he didn't want to move. They were comfortable in their apartment, no matter the lack of decoration or good furniture. Of course, all it took was one phone call to the authorities to ruin everything. Perhaps a move would be in their best interest.


	3. Chapter 3

It had been a few weeks since Clarice's old college friend Jo had recognized her at a cafe. While Clarice agonized over being found, albeit by accident, Hannibal had newly adopted a more casual view on the whole ordeal. He was growing a beard. Clarice was mildly repulsed by the idea. She had an aversion to facial hair and was not pleased that he was growing his out.

"It will be a disguise," Hannibal argued. "I look quite different with facial hair."

"I know," Clarice grumbled, "but I still hate it. I hate how it looks and I hate how it feels."

"This is just stubble," Hannibal countered, running a palm over his rough cheek, "once I shave it into a style, it will be much better."

"I doubt it," she muttered.

Clarice turned out to be right for her scepticism of the beard. Despite his clever disguise, Hannibal found himself confronted by Jo and her new husband Lou at a grocery store. He had simply stopped in to pick up milk on his way home from a pleasant walk and was met by the small blonde as he stepped into the dairy products aisle.

"Hans!" Jo's warm voice carried down the aisle. Hannibal cursed in his head then waved slightly. He smiled agreeably, calling up the faint accent he had used the first time they had met. "Good afternoon," he said.

"I thought it was you!" Jo exclaimed, "I nearly didn't recognize you with the beard! It looks good."

A torrent of sarcastic remarks about the facial hair from Clarice released themselves in Hannibal's head. He shook them away mentally and extended his hand to shake. "Ha, well you have a good eye. And this is your husband?" His polite tone did not give any indication to any anxious feelings.

Lou Bennet gave him a strong handshake. He was tall and well built, most likely a hockey player. "My name's Lou," he said.

"I'm Hans," Hannibal replied smoothly. "I am an old friend of Clarice Starling's."

"Clarice?" Lou beamed. "Man, I haven't seen her since college! How is she?"

"Doing quite well," Hannibal said amiably, noting to himself that Lou smelled of engine oil and favoured his left leg. A sports injury, perhaps? Lou was unshaved, a day's growth, and his hands were rough and dirty. Maybe a work injury instead. He filed the information away. Hannibal then glanced at Jo. Her pixie haircut was sharp and meticulous. She used an expensive salon hair styling paste which was scented similar to watermelon. She was neatly groomed and quite professional. She worked a desk job, no doubt. Lou must work in construction or as a mechanic. Something with his hands.

Hannibal switched his attention back to the Bennets. Jo was inviting him and Clarice over for dinner. "Thank you for the gracious offer," Hannibal fielded the invitation with diplomatic ease, "I will definitely pass it on to Clarice. We're both quite busy, trying to find employment and settling in and such. We only moved in a little while ago. But I'll tell her to give you a call when our hectic schedule has died down."

"That's totally understandable," Jo chirped. "Tell Clarice to give me a call anytime!"

Hannibal gave her a polite nod and shook their hands again. "Thank you. It was nice seeing you both, but I must get home now." Jo and Lou went on their way. Hannibal grabbed a jug of milk from the cooler and made his way to the express checkout. He pondered to himself the consequences of spending time with Jo and Lou. He didn't know them particularly well, only the little details he picked up on the first meeting. If they would, or even could, connect "Hans Lenter" to his true identity, he did not want to risk anymore meetings. If they were stupid, as most of the world's population is apt to be, then maybe they could chance a cautious friendship with the couple.

The doctor had a feeling that Clarice was lonely and bored. She was still unsuccessful in finding work and had no extracurricular activities to keep her occupied besides working out, which she still did religiously. She spent a lot of time cleaning their tiny apartment and rereading books over and over. It pained Hannibal to see his darling Clarice so dulled. Maybe if the Bennets were as ordinary as everyone else, they could provide a nice distraction to keep Clarice engaged.

Hannibal was perfectly comfortable spending extended periods of time alone. He was used to it, and he had assumed that Clarice would be alright with their solitary existence as well. She was not overly social, but everyone had need for human interaction. The Bennets could possibly be the variation Clarice needed in her life.

At home, Hannibal recounted the events at the store to Clarice. "I told you the beard was useless!" she exclaimed. "Shave it off! It's terrible, H."

"Let it grow out a little longer," he replied, "Besides, Jo liked it."


	4. Chapter 4

Clarice was sitting at a Tim Horton's, a quintessential Canadian coffee shop, with Jo. She and Hannibal had covered all the bases, and they had decided it was safe to spend time with the Bennets. Clarice was glad. She loved being with Hannibal, but she needed to have her own life too.

"So, what's the deal with you and Hans?" Jo asked wryly, a curious smile on her face.

Clarice cocked an eyebrow and shrugged. "What do you mean?"

"Well are you guys together?" Jo pressed, her eyes bright with interest and her voice good-humoured.

"Er, yeah. Yes. We are."

"What's he like?"

Clarice fell silent. How could she sum up Hannibal in a few words? It was impossible. He was too complex, too unique to fully describe. It was not possible for her to answer "what's he like" in simplicity.

"I can't really describe him," Clarice said slowly, "you sort of have to know him yourself. But I can try." She stared into her coffee for a few moments, collecting her thoughts. "Better yet, I'll tell you this story. You can decide what he's like from it."

Jo pursed her lips. "You can't judge someone from one situation."

Clarice shook her head. "He is quite constant, Jo. Do you wanna hear the story or not?"

"Yeeess..."

"We were walking downtown a few weeks ago," Clarice looked past Jo and through the window behind her, focusing her memory.

_They were walking downtown. It was only kind of chilly. Snow gave the wind a sharp nip which was easily warded off with layers. Hannibal slowed his steps suddenly, and made a slight indication with his chin. "Is that child alone?"_

_Clarice looked briefly in the direction he was looking. A little boy, bundled in a nice parka, was standing by a shop door. His eyes were wide and darting around. Clarice nodded. "He looks lost."_

_Hannibal pulled them out of the stream of people rushing down the side walk. He crouched in front of the boy, who gave him a wildly distrustful look. Clarice stood beside him, smiling to ease the boy's fears._

"_Are you lost?" Hannibal asked. The boy nodded. "I lost Mum," he whispered._

_As Hannibal extracted a detailed description of the child's mother, Clarice scanned the crowd of people, looking for a distressed woman who might be frantically searching for her son. She couldn't see anyone. Hannibal straightened up. The little boy was clutching his hand tightly. "We're going to find your mum."_

_They walked with the boy, whose name turned out to be Ethan; in the last direction he had seen his mom. It didn't take long before they ran into a loud, vibrantly dressed woman talking on a cell phone. Ethan recognized her immediately._

_Her appearance surprised Clarice. Ethan was skinny and modestly dressed, whereas she was big. Not overweight, no. Her hair was massive, piled on her head. She moved her hands animatedly, taking up a lot of space. People gave her a wide berth as to not get hit by her gesticulations. Her clothes were colourful and loud, giving the impression that she took up even more room. _

_Her eyes lit upon Ethan, holding a strange man's hand. Her mouth formed a slack 'O'. Her cell phone snapped shut. "ETHAN!" she shrieked, running with the strained steps that very high heels forced on the wearer. Ethan let go of Hannibal's hand and was pulled away from him. "Mum!" he cried, "I lost you, but these nice people helped me!"_

"_What were you doing with my baby?" The woman whirled to confront Hannibal. _

"_He was lost," Hannibal explained softly, "we took him to find you."_

_The woman pulled Ethan into a protective, suffocating embrace. Then she pushed him back and suddenly cuffed him over the head. "Eeethaaan!" She wailed, "I told you to stay put if you got lost! Are you stupid? Inconveniencing these poor people!" _

"_He did as he was told," Hannibal rumbled, "he had stayed put, for at least fifteen minutes, from what he told me."_

_The woman gaped at him. "Excuse me?"_

"_Do not blame him for your short comings," Hannibal announced, "Allow me to make an assumption... You hadn't even noticed he was gone?"_

_The woman's face turned red and she spouted off excuses, flustered and embarrassed. People passing by shook their heads, adding to her exasperation. Hannibal knelt in front of Ethan and whispered something to him. Making an angry noise in the back of her throat, the woman pulled her son away, muttering about the pretentiousness of people these days._

"_What did you tell him?" Clarice asked curiously, as they made their way home._

"_I told him he was better than her and to never, ever hold back from achieving."_

Jo's eyebrows shot up. "Seriously! That happened!"

"Yep."

"He mighta changed that little boy's life right there. I bet he doesn't get much encouragement from home."

Clarice finished off her coffee. "Now you know what kind of man he is."


	5. Chapter 5

Hannibal glanced approvingly at the bottle of wine in Clarice's hands. She had picked a good type. They were getting ready to go to Jo and Lou's place for supper. Hannibal had finally consented to spend time with the couple. He had no problems with Clarice spending time with them, but he was a bit more wary about being with them himself.

Of course, he had confidence in his beard. There was some sort of psychology behind it that he had explained one night to Clarice. Trim and nicely kept facial hair such as his beard apparently bred a form of subconscious trust in people. Moustaches on the other hand, gave the impression of coldness: this being influenced by historical figures such as Hitler and Stalin.

They arrived at the Bennett's at 5:30pm sharp. Lou greeted them at the door with a smile. "Come in!" He ushered them into the front hall where he took their jackets. As Hannibal was removing his winter gloves, he heard a quiet, virtually indiscernible gasp from Lou. Amusement glimmered in Hannibal's head, a bright spark of light. Lou possessed admirable self-control to be able to contain that much surprise at Hannibal's prosthetic hand.

Lou led them to the dining room, where a table was set. There were flowers in a vase as the centerpiece and deep red placemats set out that complimented the colour of the walls. Clarice presented the bottle of wine to Jo, who had just finished setting out wine glasses. She laughed appreciatively and took it with thanks.

While Jo poured everyone a glass of wine, Hannibal and Clarice were seated across from each other. Lou took the head of the table and Jo took the foot when she was finished. "Well!" Jo clapped her hands together contentedly. "Thank you very much for coming over!"

"Our pleasure," Clarice replied warmly. Hannibal noted with interest that she was blooming in this social interaction. He could see that she had missed having friends. His heart froze for a moment. He had forced her into a hermetic seclusion in the frozen tundra-prairies of Saskatchewan, Canada. The moment passed. It was irrational to think that way. If Clarice had issues with their lifestyle she definitely would have said something.

"Hans, where are you from originally?" Jo asked, directing the flow of conversation to him. "I don't mean to be rude, but I did notice you have a slight accent." Hannibal's lips twitched into the semblance of a friendly smile. "I am from Lithuania, originally, although I have not lived there for a long time."

Beneath the table, Clarice clenched her fists. Hannibal was not even trying to hide his identity. It had been in the papers back when he had first been arrested that he was Lithuanian. Clarice then forced herself to relax. No one was going to remember that little fact. It had barely been mentioned.

The evening passed smoothly. Soon supper was served. It was an exceptional meal that consisted of steak, scallop potatoes, pasta salad and Greek salad accompanied by home-made bread rolls. The wine Clarice had chosen complemented the meal well and Hannibal allowed himself to grin about it. He had taught her well.

Soon they retired to the living room. Hannibal and Clarice sat on a dark brown loveseat together as Lou and Jo occupied a couch made in the same style.

It was a surreal evening for both Clarice and Hannibal. They had rarely had "real couple experiences" (as Clarice referred to them) due to the nature of their relationship and Hannibal's identity. Despite the enjoyment of companionship, neither of them let their guards down. One slip up might cause suspicions.

"I don't mean to be rude," Lou said suddenly at one point, "but can I ask what happened to your hand?"

Hannibal lifted his prosthetic up from his lap and let it drop. He twitched the fingers mechanically. It was a very good, reliable model. Unfortunately the reaction time could be a bit slow, but he was planning on making a few adjustments to fine tune it. "It was an accident at work when I was young," he said casually, his words frosted with a Lithuanian icing, "I was working in an industrial garage with my uncle. I was using a large electrical saw, I'm not sure of the word in English. But one of my uncle's employees fell from a ladder and startled me. I accidently cut my own hand off."

Clarice and Lou winced. Hannibal noted sharply that Lou rubbed his own hands together thoughtfully. Jo's face drained white. "That's horrible," she said.

He shrugged nonchalantly, playing it off. "It happened a long time ago. Now, I have a satisfactory prosthetic." He moved the prosthetic fingers again. _'And a useless stump to go with it,'_ he thought dryly.

Lou slapped at his knee. "I sorta understand. Nothing that drastic. I broke my knee once at work."

'_That explains the limp,'_ Hannibal thought to himself. Half of the conscious part of his mind retreated, dwelling on his severed hand, while the other half continued socializing.

The night passed smoothly.

They arrived home. When they entered their apartment, Hannibal went to their bedroom and began removing the prosthetic. He flung it onto the bed and disappeared into the washroom. Alarmed, Clarice knocked on the door.

"H? What's wrong?"

"Just a moment, Clarice."

His tone sent shivers down her spine. It transported her back to the underground level of the Chesapeake asylum as she walked down the stone corridor, inmate after inmate hissing and glaring at her, only to come face to face with a handsome blue-eyed monster.

In the washroom, Hannibal was leaning on his good hand and staring at himself in the mirror. During his fictional story of the "hand incident", he had caught a glimpse of Clarice's expression. It had been a mask. Her lips had been pursed together in a thin white line, her cheeks flushed red. Her eyes had been what really struck him. He had read anxiety in her eyes. She still, no matter how much he explained the reasoning, felt guilty about the removal of his appendage.

He had explained to her before why it had been necessary to take off his hand. She assured him that she understood and still she harboured guilt. His injury was causing her unwarranted mental anxiety and he could not fix it.

Hannibal took a moment to compose his emotions. He assessed why he was behaving irrationally. There was frustration at the loss of a limb. He could still feel his phantom hand and it caused him some mild stress. There were the feelings of mourning. Hannibal sorely missed having a fully functioning hand. Seeing Lou's hands, rough and calloused from work, reminded him of the things he had done with his own hands, like playing the piano.

And there was Clarice. Besides her guilt, Hannibal allowed himself to ignore the fact that she made the effort never to look at his stump. It gave her what she would call "the heebie jeebies".

At peace with his emotions, Hannibal exited the washroom. He returned to the bedroom. Clarice was sitting on her side of the bed, looking at him curiously. Without saying anything, Hannibal picked up his prosthetic, meaning to put it back on.

Clarice's slim hand closed over his wrist. "H, I'm sorry."

"For what, Clarice?"

"I hurt you tonight. I'm not sure how, but I did."

She took the prosthetic from him. Tenderly, she reached and laid her fingertips on the rounded stump of his severed wrist. Hannibal stiffened. She had never touched it before. Clarice brought it up to her mouth and kissed it. "This doesn't bother me anymore."


	6. Chapter 6

It never ceased to amaze Clarice how much it snowed in Canada. The wind alone could keep her awake for hours, and knowing the next morning the ground would be covered with a thick layer of snow made her feel more than just a touch of despair. Clarice pushed her face underneath her pillow and squeezed her eyes shut.

Beside her, Hannibal stirred in his sleep. Clarice peeked out from beneath the pillow and her stare fell on the stump of his wrist. Her eyes glazed over as her mind raced back to the events that took place in Chesapeake.

_His knuckles were white with the strength he was using to keep her arm still. The chain links on the handcuffs that bound them together gleamed in the light of the kitchen. Hannibal held a large butcher's knife slightly above his shoulder in the other hand. Clarice had refused to give him the key to the handcuffs and with the sounds of police sirens coming closer, the doctor seemed to be panicking. Hannibal gripped her wrist tighter. One tear rolled down his cheek as he looked at her and said: "This is really going to hurt."_

_Clarice flinched and screamed with her eyes shut. There was a grunt from Hannibal and a bang; knife blade against countertop. Clarice opened her eyes. Hannibal was bent over the countertop, his chest heaving. His breath was rattling and he was clutching his arm. Clarice blanched when she saw his fine-boned hand laying on the countertop. It looked like a strange, deformed crab. The second thing she saw was the blood._

_Blood everywhere, all over the counter, spilling onto the floor. Blood streamed from between the fingers of Hannibal's remaining hand and stained his clothes dark. Hannibal looked up from his diminished limb and locked eyes with Clarice. Pinpoints of maroon light spiralled in his blue irises. His lips curled back in an animalistic display of sufferance. Leaving the severed hand, Hannibal fled from the house. _

_Clarice stumbled outside a few moments after, head spinning and stomach upset. She found herself standing at the edge of the lake. The police sirens ripped the night's quiet apart like wolf ripped open the steaming haunch of a fresh kill. The red and blue lights decorated the sky. Looking out onto the lake, a small boat presented itself to her, bobbing on the calm water. One last offer from the good doctor. _

Shaking her head, Clarice rolled over and shut her eyes again. Hannibal had explained multiple times that he had cut off his hand out of necessity, but Clarice found it hard to dispel the guilt that whispered everything was her fault.

Although, Clarice supposed she was very lucky. Many people boasted of doing anything for their significant other, but here she had a man who would actually sever his own limb. He had opted out from hurting her and maimed himself instead.

Not exactly romantic, but it was quite the message.

Now, out in the frozen prairie of Canada, Clarice had reconnected with old college friends and was living with the man she loved. A tiny voice niggled at the back of her head, however. What were the odds of seeing Jo and Lou again?

A small noise from Hannibal made Clarice look at him again. His eyes were half open. "Clarice," he murmured softly, "what's the matter?"

"The damn wind is keeping me up," she grumbled.

Hannibal's lips curved into a smile. He shifted over and pulled her against his chest. He was warm and Clarice listened to his heart in silence. His heartbeat was the most comforting sensation she had ever experienced. It meant life. It also meant happiness, warmth and love.

"It will pass," he said soothingly, "and then it will be nicer out. Perhaps we can go skating again."

Clarice wrinkled her nose. "How about you take me out for Vietnamese food instead?"

Hannibal kissed her neck. "Skating and then Vietnamese after."

"Deal."

The tip of his pink tongue stole across the smooth skin of her neck. Clarice placed her hand at the base of his neck and pushed herself against him. Her lips found his and she kissed him hard.

* * *

In the morning, Clarice found Hannibal in the bathroom. He was standing in front of the mirror with his face covered in shaving cream and a razor in his hand.

"Thank God," she said with an exaggerated huff.

Hannibal made a point of ignoring her comment. "What are you doing today?"

Clarice shrugged, pulling her hair into a tight ponytail. "Jo wants to go to the mall. She has to pick out a birthday present for her niece and wants me to come along."

* * *

Hannibal elected to stay home. He was content to be alone for awhile. He wandered around their apartment, deep in thought. He had a charcoal sketch waiting to be finished and a new book to read. Some soft music was playing through the small speakers they had bought which hooked up to Clarice's iPod. Hannibal preferred vinyl records but it was easier with an iPod. It was less to take with them if they had to move suddenly.

Humming to himself, Hannibal went back into the bedroom. He had left his charcoal pencils on the dresser. As he picked them up, a noise made him freeze. His sharp eyes darted to his prosthetic hand which was sitting on the bed. He hadn't put it on that morning yet.

Light footsteps in the living room. Hannibal crossed to the bed, gently placing the charcoal pencils down. With the speed and stealth that came with practise, he strapped on the hand. Then he stole across the creaky floor with absolute silence. Crouching low, Hannibal peered out from the bedroom's doorway. Someone had obviously broken in. Who was it was the question.

A tall man stood with his back turned to Hannibal. The doctor watched with slit eyes as the man stepped forward and picked up the charcoal drawing from the table. He favoured his leg.

Hannibal grinned to himself. It was a vicious, hard grin. It was Lou.

Lou had decided to drop in for a little visit.

Hannibal straightened up and strolled out of the bedroom. "Well, well," he said amiably. "Lou! What a surprise!"

The other man paused, and then turned nonchalantly. "I knocked and the door swung open."

"Oh, silly me," amusement crept into Hannibal's voice. "I must have forgotten to close it properly."


	7. Chapter 7

Hannibal had the disadvantage. Lou was half a foot taller than he was and probably weighed thirty pounds heavier. He was also a sportsman, playing hockey and football, therefore stronger and quicker. These factors also played to Hannibal's advantage. If Lou possessed the psyche of an average male, he would deem the smaller, crippled doctor a non-threat.

It was clear to Hannibal that Lou's intentions were less than honourable. The way he held himself was aggressive and his smile, most likely unintentional, was savage. His eyes were also gleaming in a way that Hannibal knew his own victims had seen before their deaths.

Holding his prosthetic hand limp, acting wit Lou's assumptions, Hannibal kept his voice level. "Are Jo and Clarice still at the mall?" He asked. Lou shrugged. "Yeah, it would seem that way. Jo wasn't home when I left." The bigger man shifted his weight to his back leg.

"Ah, well," Hannibal said, dropping the faint Lithuanian accent he had been using. "I know why you're here, Lou."

This made the other man hesitant. But to his credit, Lou recovered quickly. "Then I guess we can quit the charade, Lenter. Oops, I mean, Doctor Lecter."

"Why haven't you called the police, Lou," Hannibal said, smiling softly, "or is your plan to capture me and take all the glory?"

Lou smirked and let the charcoal drawing flutter to the ground. "Don't try to make me out to be some clichéd villain in your little fairy tale world," he said, "I know who you are. You're a psychopath. I wouldn't call the police unless I was one hundred percent certain about you." Lou reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "Look. I did some research. Doctor Hannibal Lecter, born in Lithuania. Physical description: average build, slick hair, blue eyes, maimed left hand." He cocked his eyebrow. "I guess the FBI didn't know how maimed." He barked a short laugh.

"Very good," Hannibal purred. "You did a little bit of research and it opened a treasure trove. Are you aware how much the reward for my whereabouts is?"

Lou's smile shrank. "Yes, I'm aware. But the money's not why I'm doing this. I'm doing it because it's the right thing to do. I don't know if you hypnotized or drugged Clarice, or if she has Stockholm Syndrome, but the Clarice I knew in college would have done the same thing."

In contrast to Lou's smile, Hannibal's grew. "Ah, Clarice. She is a gem. You know, Lou," Hannibal began to walk, never taking his eyes off his adversary. Lou paced with him, keeping the doctor in front of him at all times. Hannibal chuckled. "Clarice did the very same thing several times, my dear Mr. Bennett. Why do you think my hand is missing? She once handcuffed herself to me and forced me to remove it personally," the last word came out in a breathy hiss. Lou looked a bit uncertain.

"So you've drugged her and kept her as some sort of fucking slave?" Lou suddenly spat.

Hannibal raised an eyebrow. "Oh, no. We're in love, Lou. Can't you see it? I have done nothing to her. She is free to come and go as she wishes. I offered her my soul and she chose to accompany me."

"You're sick," Lou muttered. "And a liar. Clarice is different than that. I know it."

"Hmmm," Hannibal said in reply. Out of the corner of his eye, on the kitchen table, there was a metal edged ruler. He had used it the day before to draw the side of a building. Without even a twitch to give away his idea, Hannibal turned and leaned against the table, putting one hand out behind him and tilting his head to the side to observe Lou. "Has it ever occurred to you that you do not know Clarice as well as you think?" Hannibal asked with the utmost politeness.

Lou said nothing. Instead he looked down. The charcoal drawing was at his feet. It was a sketch of Clarice, looking off to the side. It was drawn with amazing accuracy and skill. With Lou momentarily distracted, Hannibal lunged forward, the ruler in hand. He drove his right fist into Lou's pelvic area, seeking the kidneys. Lou yelled in pain and Hannibal swept his legs out from beneath him with a swift kick. Lou toppled, hands pressed over his kidney and coughing. Hannibal flipped him over, quickly crouched over him and held the point of the ruler to Lou's neck. "I could slit your throat," Hannibal mused, "And have a lovely blood pudding for dessert tonight. Oh, Clarice and I could have a marvellous supper. Maybe I'll make sweetbreads out of you."

"You fucking monster," Lou gasped. Hannibal felt the man's muscles tense beneath him.

"Ah-ah. That isn't wise, Lou. I can feel you getting ready to move."

Hannibal ran his prosthetic hand up Lou's shoulder, grabbed it, and pressed on a bundle of nerves. Lou cried out in shock. "My arm!" he whispered, "I can't feel it."

"I just numbed it by pressing on some nerves," Hannibal told him warmly. He did the same to the other shoulder. Lou's arms flopped uselessly on the floor. Then his eyes widened and horror flooded them.

"Don't kill Jo," he said thickly.

Hannibal gave him a sad look. He recognized the hot emotion of unconditional love in the man's voice. "I can't promise you that, Lou," he confessed painfully. "She will know that I killed you once Clarice and I move on."

Tears began running down Lou's cheeks. "Please don't eat her," he whimpered, "Make it painless."

Hannibal touched Lou's forehead tenderly. "I promise."

Lou closed his eyes, tears still streaming down his face. "Do it now if you're going to kill me."

Hannibal placed his palm on Lou's wet cheek. "I'll be as quick as possible," he murmured, " and I won't eat you, either. I didn't want to kill you, you know."

Lou shuddered at the doctor's touch. A tiny, weary grin spread his lips and he opened his eyes. "And I don't want to die. I should have stayed out of it."

Hannibal nodded. He grabbed Lou's head suddenly, and leaned close as if to kiss him. They looked each other and Hannibal promptly snapped Lou's head to the side, breaking his neck. The light drained out of his dark eyes and Hannibal gently placed his head back on the floor.

Standing, Hannibal passed his good hand over his face. Clarice was going to be devastated.


	8. Chapter 8

The book store was quaint. It wasn't the largest that Clarice had seen, nor was it the smallest. It was in the middle. The overall tone of the place was comfort. Shades of greens and browns were the themes for furniture and wall colours. Small, one seated couches dotted the rows between bookshelves. Near to the middle of the building, there was a large, circular run of countertop which served as the checkout line. Off to the left of the checkout was a spiralling staircase that wrapped around a large tree trunk. It led to an upper level that ran balcony-like around the store.

Clarice wanted to buy something for Hannibal as Jo looked for a present for her niece. Clarice wanted to surprise him with a little something. She felt that with all that had happened in the past, with Hannibal being caught up in taking care of her, no one had taken care of Hannibal.

He was well adapted to looking after himself mentally by locking away his emotions. The years he had spent in the basement of Dr. Chilton's facility had forced him to put aside his self-destructive thoughts about Mischa. After the ordeal with Mason Verger and the removal of Hannibal's hand, he had fled and followed Clarice from a distance, finally approaching her with an offer for love and acceptance.

Now that they were together, he had an outlet for his emotions. He could bounce his feelings and thoughts off of Clarice. She had created a theory about it. She thought that because he had someone who could reciprocate his emotions and be affected by them, his control had slipped marginally. Thus, the events of the other night: him being upset about his severed hand and her reaction to his stump. Clarice thought that she had eased his insecurities about the stump a little by touching it for the first time.

On the car ride to the store, Clarice watched prairie landscape flicker by. There were long stretches of plain, flat ground between various parts of the Canadian city they were in, and currently everything was draped in snow. The winter was as harsh as it was rumoured to be in the North; dry and blistering. But when one was inside on a cold day, it was beautiful. The clean snow was crystalline in the sunlight. It sparkled like diamond dust on the sidewalks. Clarice often had to look away. She was unusually affected by snow blindness.

As her thoughts returned to the quaintness of the beauty of Canadian prairie landscape, there really was no other way to describe it; she selected a dark covered Moleskine notebook. It was filled with completely blank pages and was held closed by a black elastic band which was attached to the cover. It was a hardy looking book of good quality. Clarice picked up another one, only it was bigger. The first one was pocket sized and the second one was full journal sized.

Jo had gone up the stairs to check out the kids' selection of books. From what Clarice understood, her niece was turning nine years old. She had warned Jo right off the bat that she didn't know much about children and had no idea what a nine year old girl would want for her birthday. She had vague recollections about what she had liked as a child and could not really make a comparison.

Waiting for Jo to pick something, Clarice wondered briefly what her life would have been like if Hannibal had not re-entered it. She would not be in some prairie town in the middle of an icy Canadian winter, she knew that for certain. It occurred to her that she probably would have been living a lonely but complacent life as an FBI agent. There had been no man in her life before Hannibal's arrival at her house that one night. There was nothing but Ardelia and her career.

She missed Ardelia but she also knew that she was ultimately happier with Hannibal. And now that she had re-established her friendships with Lou and Jo, she had another facet of joy to add to her life.

As a younger woman, the FBI had been good for her. It provided her with room to learn and mature, it was a place for her to cement her morals and decide on what she valued most. It was also a catalyst into the world of Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

Her phone vibrated in her jeans pocket. It was a text message from Hannibal. Clarice opened it, wondering quietly what he needed.

'_Bring Jo over for supper,'_ the first line of the message read. The second line was written in French, a language Hannibal had been teaching her. _'J'ai tu__é__ Lou.'_

Clarice translated the phrase slowly. "Oh my God," she gasped softly. Hannibal had killed Lou.

'_Why!'_ She texted back.

'_Bring Jo. Come home. I'll explain.'_

Clarice closed her eyes. Jo was going to die. If Hannibal had killed Lou, it was for a reason.


End file.
